by Lucy Diamond
Charlotte’s hands felt emptier than ever and her adrenalin leaked away like a punctured balloon as she stood there dumbly watching the heart-warming scene. Idiot. You didn’t really think you could keep her, did you?
‘Thank you.’ Standing upright again, still holding on to Lily, the man had noticed her at last, standing there like a spare part. ‘Thank you so much,’ he gasped, relief evident in every syllable. ‘I was just taking my youngest daughter to the loo – I must have been two minutes – when . . .’
Charlotte’s lip curled. She didn’t want to listen. Nothing made her angrier – nothing! – than parents who couldn’t be bothered to look after their own children. Parents who had no idea how bloody lucky they were. ‘You should take better care of her,’ she said coldly, biting down the rage she could feel swirling up inside like the beginning of a violent tornado.
‘I fort she was Mrs Johnson,’ Lily said, tugging at her dad who didn’t seem to notice. ‘Daddy? I fort she was Mrs Johnson.’
But the man was staring open-mouthed at Charlotte, looking taken aback. Hurt, even. ‘Take better care . . . ?’ he echoed, colour rushing to his face. ‘I do take good care of them. Not that it’s anything to do with you.’
‘It is my business when I find your child wandering around, lost and crying, because you can’t be bothered to keep tabs on her,’ Charlotte said, anger spiking through her. Even as she was saying the words she knew she was being unfair but she just couldn’t help it. Weekend dads like this guy were the worst too – not a clue, most of them, more interested in peering at their smartphones than any interaction with their poor children.
‘Daddy! I fort the lady was Mrs Johnson!’ Lily said again, banging their entwined hands against the man’s leg to make him pay attention.
The man’s face was screwed up as if he was about to yell something rude back at Charlotte but at his daughter’s words, he turned away, his body like a shield for both children. I’ll protect you from the crazy angry lady. Daddy’s got you. ‘Yes, I heard, darling,’ he said to the girl, crouching down and putting his arm around her. He leaned his head against hers in a tender, weary sort of way. ‘Come on, let’s get home now,’ he said in a gentler voice, and in the next moment, the rage had left Charlotte and she was filled with mortification in its place.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry,’ she said, and then whirled around, unable to control her emotions a moment longer, and marched back along the pier, tears pouring down her cheeks. Fool. Idiot. Madwoman. Go home and calm the hell down, Charlotte.
The spring sunshine seemed to mock her now. People made indignant noises as she barged blindly through them, but she barely heard as they called ‘Oi!’ and ‘Watch it!’ after her. What was wrong with her? What had she become?
Yeah, I went to the pier, Mum, she thought, still smarting from the encounter and wrapped her arms around herself as she picked up speed. It was great. Had a lovely trip out. No problem at all.
*
It wasn’t as if she had ever really been going to steal the woman’s baby, back in the park in Reading anyway. She had only gone over because the baby was crying in the pram and nobody seemed to be paying her any attention. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Charlotte had breathed, gazing down at the soft round face, the single tooth visible in the pink lower gum, the dark curls mussed up where the baby had been twisting her head. Breath catching in her throat, Charlotte had put one gloved hand on the knitted coverlet – only to soothe her! Not to take her! – and had felt the warmth of the infant’s body through the wool, so alive, so real. Her heart had ached with sheer longing, and without knowing what she was doing, her other hand reached in automatically. Just for that contact, the warm, baby contact again. Just because it was impossible not to.
But then had come the commotion, running footsteps, the ugly accusing screeching, the woman’s red shouting face. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off her! It was as if a spell had been broken, and Charlotte had had to scuttle away, face burning, with all the other mothers looking scandalized in her wake. Weirdo. Baby-snatcher. Paedo. ‘I was a mother once too, you know,’ she wanted to shout in her defence, but she had clamped her jaw shut and run out instead, the child-proof gate clanging behind her. Keep out and stay out. It was pretty much the moment Charlotte decided she needed to leave town, just get away, anywhere, to start over.
I was a mother once too, you know. That was one of the hardest things: that there seemed no adequate term to describe the devastating enormity of Charlotte’s situation. She was a woman who had once traced the rounded curve of her newborn baby’s cheek and marvelled at her delicate pink ears, pressed her nose into the soft whorls of hair on her baby’s head, but whose hands now hung empty. An ex-mum. A former parent. Christ, these were surely the worst words in the world. The sort of the words that stripped away your reasoning in children’s playgrounds, that sent you screaming at strangers on Brighton pier. Good one, Char. There’s a reason why you don’t spend much time interacting with the public, remember. She should have known by now to grit her teeth and walk away but that small hand in hers had unlocked the madness all over again.
Are you sure I shouldn’t give Doctor Giles a call? her mother asked tentatively in her head and Charlotte felt a sob building in the back of her throat, tight and painful. No, she did not want to go back to Doctor Giles and take any more of his pharmaceutical cosh pills which left her feeling so disconnected from the world. Oh, her mum thought she had all the answers: pills, counselling, meditation, cakes. Plant a tree in Kate’s name, she had urged. Put together a memory book. All things she’d read in her Grief and Bereavement leaflets; all things which Charlotte rejected angrily, one after another.
You don’t understand, she told her mother. Nobody did. How would planting a sodding tree help, when her baby had died?
Back at the apartment block, she raced up the stairs, desperate to get inside her flat where it was calm and safe. Just as she was nearing the landing, though, the door of the flat next to hers opened and out came more neighbours she hadn’t yet met. It was a twenty-something couple – him tall and sandy-haired in a trendy T-shirt and jeans with gel in his hair, one of those ‘good-looking and I know it’ type of men who had always looked straight through Charlotte. The woman had blonde hair up in a jaunty ponytail, and a wide smiling mouth, and wore a cherry-red skater skirt, grey Converse and a silky navy bomber jacket. Charlotte had heard them through the wall a few times – laughter and music and the shower running at six-thirty every morning – but it was the first time she’d actually seen them in real life. Of all the moments, too, when she was flustered and on edge. She scrubbed her face furtively, trying to wipe away her tears, and forced a smile as the woman caught her eye.
‘Hello! Do you live here? I’m Georgie and this is Simon, we’re in flat number three,’ the woman said as they met on the stairs. ‘We’ve been here nearly two weeks and I haven’t met anyone yet. I was starting to think I was living amongst a bunch of hermits, ha ha.’
‘I’m Charlotte. Flat number four,’ she said weakly, feeling frumpy and middle-aged; a loser in life compared to this bright shining young couple.
‘Oh, so we’re next door to each other! Excellent. I’ve been meaning to pop round. Great to meet you, we’re just on our way out but we should definitely catch up some time. Have a drink.’ She mimed pouring one down her throat and her boyfriend rolled his eyes affectionately for the benefit of Charlotte.
‘Lovely,’ squeaked Charlotte. ‘I’d better get on, but it’s good to meet you.’
‘You too! Fab. And I love your shoes. They’re so cool,’ Georgie called after her, leaving Charlotte to stare down at the clumpy brogues she’d had for about ten years as she tramped up the last few steps to the landing.
She unlocked her door and slid to the floor in the small hallway, trying to catch her breath. You’re all right. You’re all right, she said to herself. And actually, as her heart slowed and her b
reathing returned to normal again, she realized that the brief one-minute exchange with her neighbour had somehow taken the sting out of the pier encounter, made her feel more normal again. Forget the man and his little girls, forget her mortifying burst of misplaced emotions. She was home now and she was safe.
*
Once, when she was twenty-one and far bolder than she was these days, Charlotte had taken part in a charity tandem skydive at university. She couldn’t even remember what they were raising money for now, but she did remember being up in that tiny plane, with the world spread out, yellow and green in miniature below; sitting on the floor, knees up, harnessed to the instructor behind her; the deafening rush of air when the door was opened, and that heart-stopping sensation of plunging down through the blue, moments later. Freefalling, the breath snatched from her lungs, the ground rushing up closer with every microsecond, adrenalin going berserk. Open the parachute, she had thought frantically. Why isn’t he opening the parachute? . . . right up until she had felt a sudden sharp swing upwards, and seen the parachute filling with air above them.
Ever since Kate had died, Charlotte’s thoughts had returned frequently to the dizzying terror of that twenty-second freefall, and an anxiety would seize hold of her so that her lungs felt too shallow to breathe. Life seemed to have become one permanent freefall these days: the lack of control, the powerlessness, the awful uncertainty about when it would end. Open the parachute, she screamed in her dreams as the ground hurtled up towards her again and again. Why aren’t you opening the parachute?
‘These feelings will pass,’ the counsellor she’d seen had said when Charlotte told her of this recurring thought pattern. ‘Try to acknowledge that you are feeling grief and travelling through a period of mourning. Remind yourself that you do have control over many other aspects of your life. It’s up to you how you choose to react.’
The words had been a small parachute of their own, guiding Charlotte down in times of need. She thought of them again at precisely one minute to four that afternoon, as she heaved a deep nervous breath and gave herself a last look in the mirror. I have choices, she remembered. I have control.
Having seesawed this way and that about whether to accept Margot’s invitation, the decision had eventually been made when Charlotte noticed the date – 23 April – and realized that it would have been her grandmother’s birthday, had she still been alive. Her kind, twinkly-eyed nana, who would also have invited an unhappy young woman into her house for afternoon tea in the same circumstances – and who would have been hurt and disappointed if that young woman hadn’t turned up without so much as a word of explanation. ‘I’m doing this for you, Nan,’ she muttered under her breath as she straightened her denim shirt-dress, added a pale pink ballerina cardigan that knotted at the front and picked up the bunch of white tulips she’d bought earlier.
Afternoon tea and a chat. Charlotte was a polite sort of person and had always loved spending time with her grandparents; she could do this. It might even be enjoyable. With these brave thoughts in mind, she walked the twelve carpeted steps up to Margot Favager’s flat, a pleasant smile fixed firmly in place. She was just about to knock, though, when she became aware of an impassioned voice from within: Margot herself, having some kind of argument all in French. Charlotte might have done a GCSE in the subject back in the day but the rapid-fire dialogue she could hear now was all but impossible to comprehend. The only word she recognized – repeated several times in varying degrees of volume – was ‘Non’.
Her hand dropped down by her side and she shifted from foot to foot, feeling as if she was eavesdropping, which was clearly ridiculous when she could barely understand a word being said. ‘Non!’ Margot cried again with new vehemence, and then there came a small crashing sound. Charlotte couldn’t help imagining a phone being flung at a wall and took an involuntary step backwards. Maybe she should just go, come back in ten minutes. She moistened her lips, trying to decide what was best to do. She didn’t even know this Margot woman after all. What might she be getting herself into here? Her grandmother had been soft of voice and soft of lap, prone to giving ticklish kisses all over one’s face. Her mother, too, was a woman who showed kindness with a hug, a cup of tea when you hadn’t asked for one, clean bed linen and comfort food when you were having a nervous breakdown, and then a new lipstick once you started coming through the other side.
Meanwhile, an uneasy sort of silence had fallen inside Flat 5. Her fingers now a little clammy around the tulips, Charlotte lifted her other hand and knocked. ‘It’s Charlotte,’ she called, just in case her elderly neighbour was at all anxious about that sort of thing.
Margot answered the door looking ruffled, her eyes red-rimmed and somewhat wild. She was wearing a grey jersey dress with a gold locket at her throat, plus a number of gold rings on her fingers, and Charlotte felt instantly dowdy in her denim dress, which somehow seemed more creased than it had done in front of her mirror. ‘Charlotte!’ Margot cried, smiling, but then pulled a rueful face almost immediately. ‘I think you hear the argument, no?’ she said, seemingly reading Charlotte’s fearful expression. ‘It was my son Michel. He think he know everything but . . .’ She rolled her eyes melodramatically. ‘Pah. He does not.’
‘Are you all right?’ Charlotte asked tentatively.
Margot gave a very French sort of shrug then held the door wide so that Charlotte could enter the flat. ‘Come,’ she ordered. ‘Well, you see, that is the story. Am I all right? Non. I am dying.’
Charlotte gulped. ‘Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I—’
Margot waved a hand. They were in her narrow hallway but whereas Charlotte’s hallway was as bland and anodyne as a budget hotel, Margot’s was covered in ornate wallpaper, striped fuchsia and gold. There was a huge gilt-edged mirror just behind them and a grand old iron sconce with a fat white candle wedged into its cup. ‘We all die,’ she said. ‘And I am an old woman, hein? But Michel, he wants me to come back to France, he say I should die at home.’ She gave a haughty sort of sniff. ‘I say I will die where I please. And this is my home. So there. But come, let me make some tea. I have macarons and pastries, we will have a nice time. And I will stop talking about dying, okay? Come, this way.’
Feeling rather dumbstruck, Charlotte followed her hostess into a grand living space, the walls papered a rich midnight blue, the ceilings high with white mouldings patterned in leaves and flowers and fruit, and a glittering chandelier at the centre. ‘Oh wow, this is lovely,’ she breathed, gazing around at the oil paintings clustered on the walls, the thick soft grey carpet, the original cast-iron fireplace and the generous windows, through which the spring sunshine fell.
‘You like? I am glad,’ Margot said graciously, waving her into one of the chocolate-brown armchairs just as a ringing started up. The sound appeared to be coming from the direction of the skirting board and Margot’s eyes narrowed. ‘We will ignore that,’ she decreed, before bending rather stiffly to retrieve the phone from the ground and jabbing an imperious finger at the keypad. ‘There. He is gone,’ she said with a flourish. ‘And now I will make tea. Sit. Sit!’
Charlotte sat, and then promptly got up again, proffering the tulips which she had quite forgotten about with all the drama. ‘These are for you,’ she said, hoping they weren’t too vanilla for her neighbour’s taste. Now that she was here amidst such opulent surroundings, she wished she had plumped for something more exotic: hothouse orchids or some spiky-leaved birds of paradise flowers.
‘How kind! White flowers are so elegant. Thank you,’ Margot said with gratifyingly authentic-sounding pleasure. ‘One moment, please.’
She bustled out of the room and Charlotte was left to gather her thoughts. So far the conversation had not exactly proceeded how she had expected it to. This wasn’t, for instance, the cosy sort of chit-chat she had formerly enjoyed with her grandmother. ‘Can I help?’ she called, remembering her manners. ‘Can I do anything, Margot?’
But Margot had already re-emerged with a plate of dai
nty little pastries and colourful macarons. ‘Thank you, no,’ she said, setting them on a small walnut coffee table between the two armchairs. ‘Please – be my guest. Take one,’ she said, putting down two small side plates. ‘They are from Julien Plumart on Queens Road, do you know the place? The best patisserie in this city.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte, feeling all thumbs as she plucked a tiny lemon macaron and nibbled the edge. They were very good, it was true. She would definitely put those trainers on and go for a proper walk later, she vowed. Although perhaps not in the direction of the pier, for obvious reasons. ‘Mmm. Delicious.’ She licked a crumb off her finger. ‘So when did you come to Brighton, then?’ she asked as Margot poured tea from a tarnished silver pot.
‘Twenty years ago,’ Margot said. ‘My husband, he died, I took a lover and we came here.’ She raised an eyebrow in a naughty, conspiratorial sort of way. ‘An English lover. Better than I expect, I must tell you. Better than my husband if I am honest with you . . .’
Charlotte spluttered on her macaron, hoping her eyes weren’t boggling. ‘Um . . .’
‘My sons, they did not approve,’ Margot went on. ‘We had big argument. Many argument. We did not speak for a long time – I am stubborn, you see. They are stubborn too. But then my lover, Andrew, he died, since three years. And the boys, they forgive me at last. We are a family again. Although . . .’ She gestured at the phone. ‘Now they ring me. Maman, you must come home. Maman, you cannot stay there alone. Maman, you must see the doctor.’ Setting the teapot back on the table, she passed Charlotte’s cup and saucer to her. ‘But I say no. I do not like the doctor. I do not want to travel. I will die here in my chair, with a glass of good cognac and a smile on my face. And that is that.’
All this talk of dying and arguing and passion, Charlotte didn’t quite know how to respond. She poured milk from a small silver jug into her tea and stirred. ‘Sounds good,’ she said, then could have bitten off her tongue. Margot dying in that chair sounded good? So much for manners.
